[Seno Estate — Council Chamber | March, 2006]
The great hall was colder than usual. Torches hissed in iron brackets, their flames casting red shadows against the banners. Hayato stood in the center again, his shirt pulled across scarred shoulders, his shard-arm faintly shimmering where his skin twitched. Vernon stood a step behind, silent as ever.
The clan head's mask gleamed faintly in the torchlight. His voice rolled across the chamber like iron.
"Your first task was a stray. Barely worth mention. This time, you will face a predator."
An attendant stepped forward, placing a photograph on the floor before Hayato.
A young man stared back from the picture — lean, sunken-eyed, his mouth split in a twisted grin. His file scrawled below in neat script: Alias: Jackdaw. Kagune: Rinkaku. Status: A-Rank.
Hayato's eyes narrowed.
"Jackdaw has survived three sweeps by the Doves," the elder continued. "He feeds in the alleys of the 15th Ward, leaving trails of corpses behind him. The CCG hunts him, but he slips their nets. He is strong, but reckless. He will test you."
Another elder leaned forward, voice sharp. "Bring back his mask as proof. That is all that matters. If you fail…" His words lingered like a blade. "…then you were never meant to stand here."
The clan head's gaze shifted to Vernon. "You will watch him. Do not intervene unless he proves utterly incapable. He must bleed, or he will learn nothing."
Vernon bowed his head slightly. "…As you command."
Hayato's fists clenched around the photo. His voice was steady, but his chest burned with both fear and defiance.
"I'll do it."
The elders watched him in silence, their judgment heavy. Then the clan head raised a hand. "Go. Return only when the task is finished."
[Seno Estate — Outer Gate, Hours Later]
The night air bit cold as the gates groaned open. Hayato stepped into the dark streets beyond, the photograph tucked into his coat. His shards twitched faintly under his skin, restless. Vernon walked behind him, silent, his pale eyes unreadable.
The path stretched toward the 15th Ward — into the alleys where the Jackdaw fed.
Hayato clenched his jaw, his vow burning in his chest.
I'll take their strength. But one day, I'll walk away from all of this.
[15th Ward — Eastern Alleys, Midnight]
The 15th Ward smelled different from the 19th. The air was thicker, heavy with trash and smoke from factory stacks in the distance. Snow melted into filthy puddles along the gutters. Every shadow seemed sharper here, like the ward itself was waiting to devour whoever stepped into it.
Hayato walked a step ahead of Vernon, his hands tight at his sides. His senses prickled — the faint tang of RC particles carried on the wind, mixed with the stench of old blood. His shards twitched faintly beneath his skin, eager.
Vernon's voice broke the silence, calm but precise.
"Don't just chase ghosts. Ghouls leave trails. What do you notice?"
Hayato stopped, narrowing his eyes. He crouched by the mouth of a side alley. A stain darkened the stone, dried and crusted black. He pressed his fingertips against it, lifting them to his nose.
"…Ghoul blood."
Vernon inclined his head faintly. "Good. Too dark to be human — and too strong in scent. He fought here. Wounded, but not enough to slow him."
Hayato's jaw tightened. He looked deeper into the alley. Trash bins overturned. Walls gouged where a Rinkaku tendril had scraped across them.
"He's careless," Hayato muttered. "Leaves marks everywhere."
Vernon's pale eyes lingered on him. "Or confident enough not to hide them."
They moved on. Each street seemed to carry a whisper of violence — a shoe left behind in the snow, a streak of red against a rusted fence, faint claw marks near a broken window. The closer they drew to the heart of the ward, the stronger the scent became.
Hayato's stomach churned, both from hunger and anticipation. He forced it down, focusing on every sound: the distant drip of water, the scuttle of rats, the faint hum of fluorescent lamps above shuttered shops.
Finally, he stopped. The air here was heavy — too heavy. His shards stirred restlessly, warning him.
"He's close," Hayato whispered.
Vernon said nothing. His eyes only watched, steady, assessing.
Hayato's hand tightened around the photograph in his pocket. The man's twisted grin stared back in his mind.
Hayato walked in silence, every sense straining. His breath misted faintly in the air, each step deliberate, measured. His father's voice echoed in his mind: Don't waste movement. Don't waste breath.
Behind him, Vernon moved like a shadow. His coat barely stirred, his steps soundless despite the broken glass and gravel littering the alleys. He spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were sharp as a knife.
"Your prey lives here. What does the ward tell you?"
Hayato slowed, scanning the trash-strewn street. His eyes picked out small details — the overturned bin with claw marks along its edge, the cracked wall smeared faintly with something dark. He crouched, scraping his fingers against it.
"Blood," he murmured, raising his hand to his nose. The metallic tang of RC cells filled his senses, stronger than a human's.
Vernon gave the faintest nod. "Not old. Two, three days. A fight, perhaps. Did he win?"
Hayato frowned. His gaze traced deeper into the alley: splintered wood, a shoe left abandoned, gnawed clean to the bone at its cuff. His shards stirred faintly in response to the scent.
"He won," Hayato said quietly. "But he didn't care to hide it."
Vernon's pale eyes lingered on him. "Careless?"
"Confident," Hayato answered, surprising himself with the word. His jaw tightened. "He doesn't fear being followed."
For a moment, Vernon studied him, unreadable as ever. Then he motioned forward.
"Good. Keep moving."
[15th Ward — Abandoned Market Row, 12:31 A.M.]
They passed through the skeleton of what had once been a marketplace. Rusted stalls leaned like broken ribs, their tarps shredded and stiff with frost. Neon signs flickered faintly above empty storefronts, buzzing weakly as though the ward itself hadn't realized it was dead.
Hayato crouched again. His eyes scanned the ground until he saw it — faint scratches across the stone. Circular, uneven, like something heavy had been dragged.
"A body," he said softly. "Dragged this way."
He followed the marks, his shards twitching faintly under his skin. They led to a rusted door at the far end of the row. The scent was stronger here — thick, rotten, carrying the sharp tang of RC.
He froze, hand hovering near his shard-arm as it stirred.
"…He's close."
Vernon's voice was low, even. "What do you feel?"
Hayato swallowed. His stomach churned with hunger and nerves, but he forced his thoughts into words. "He's stronger than the stray. His RC levels are higher. He leaves his trail on purpose. Wants people to find it. To see what he's done."
His breath caught, his chest tightening as realization formed. "…He's baiting them. Baiting me."
Vernon's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but the faintest shift. "Then the question is simple." His pale eyes gleamed faintly in the torchlight. "Do you spring his trap… or set your own?"
Hayato's fists clenched. His heart hammered, but his father's lessons whispered at the back of his mind. A wall takes the blow so what's behind it survives. But a hunter… chooses when to strike.
He exhaled slowly, shards pulsing faint at his back.
"I'll set mine first."
Vernon inclined his head, stepping back into the shadows. "Then show me."
Hayato straightened, eyes fixed on the rusted door. Every nerve in his body screamed danger, but for the first time since the clan had forced him into their hall, he felt not just fear — but control.
The hunt was beginning.